But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Wood. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. ” She changed the subject abruptly.
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